Monday, 23 January 2017

CY TWOMBLY: CYCLES & SEASONS (TATE MODERN, 2008)

back in August 2008. I should have migrated it here before now, but as I am headed to Houston soon and hoping to visit the Twombly Gallery at the Menil Collection, I thought it would be nice to reacquaint myself (and you) with the artist now. I will also be writing about him at some point soon in connection with the recently finished Abstract Expressionist exhibition at the Royal Academy....

The best art exhibitions are those which open your eyes to something
you haven't seen before, and Cy Twombly: Cycles and Seasons, at the Tate
Modern through 14 September is one of those. It forced me to re-think
and come to a whole new appreciation of Twombly's art, which was never
as strong for me as, with hindsight, I can see it probably should have
been, given his background at Black Mountain College, and his close
association with so many people whose work I have found centrally
important.

Part of this is context. The single Twombly
encountered in a gallery may seem pleasant, but often gives off an
unfinished, almost fragile, quality. A single Franz Kline can overwhelm
you. But seeing Twombly's works in groups, in rough chronological order,
and watching what he does with the elements of squiggles and words,
with colour and with the physicality of brush and pen strokes, reveals
the powerful emotion which becomes more explicit in some of his later
works, particularly the two Four Seasons sets on display.

It's
easy to see in Twombly's work the theoretical foundation of Black
Mountain poetry, as articulated by Charles Olson and Robert Creeley,
that 'form is never more than an extension of content' (which I've
always taken to mean 'should never be more'), and that 'one perception
should lead immediately to another'. Although his pencil stokes are
often seen as subverting Pollack's calligraphic gestures, some of the
paintings in the exhibition's first room, notably 'Tiznit' (1953)
suggest something halfway between Creeley and Kline, with whom Twombly
studied at with Black Mountain. The heavy whites and blacks give way to
seeming doodles, as if Creeley had stopped by to write a short poem on a
Kline canvas. By 1955's 'Criticism' the marks actually do seem like
writing. 'Poems To The Sea' (1959) carries this even further, and I
found myself again thinking of Kline, this time crossing his work with
Olson's more epic writing.Kline worked in black and white for most of
his career, and there's sense here in which Twombly seems wary of
colour, as if not trusting, at this stage, its intense, uncontrollable
emotionalism.

By the start of the 1960s 'Crimes Of Passion' and
'Murder Of Passion' move in a different direction, discarding the
pencil-strokes for smears of paint which suggest both passion and
anxiety, and not a little eroticism, expressed in hints in
representational painting, reminding me of DeKooning. Perhaps it was a
reflection of Twombly's move to Italy, set free of American context, and
confronted with the heat of Italian summer in Rome. Within this,
references to classical works, like 'School Of Athens' homage to Rafael,
suggest an elegance that somehow doesn't seem to fit. When 'Ferragosto'
(1961) adds a rusty red to his palette, it seems more than thousands of
miles removed from the effects of pencil lines around strong blacks and
whites. All these elements begin to merge in his 1969 paintings, made
in Italy, whose calculations reflect his experience as a cryptographer
in the 1950s, while celebrating the moon landings. It's a mix of
American pragmatism and European classicism, and it works brilliantly.
There are graphs, diagrams, geometric forms, but there is still an
overarching asceticism which suggests someone learning from the past
while being overcome with the future.

There is an element of
challenge involved here too. Twombly's was the generation immediately
following the abstract expressionists. Their emotionalism was replaced
by the cool stylings of pop art, and have evolved into the heavily
ironic commentaries of the modern world. Twombly, in sense, reminds me
of Richard Diebenkorn, convinced the concerns of the artists he grew up
with were valid, and looking for new means of executing them.

But
the real fulcrum of the show comes with the next two series, starting
with 1970's 'Treatise On The Veil'. It is minimalist, a grid structure
of repeating rectangles, adorned with measurements; one in black and the
other, opposite, in gray. It suggests the music of Philip Glass, and
apparently were influenced by Muybridge's photos of a bride in motion.
But looking at the shades of gray and black, and the strong
brushstrokes, I was reminded of late Rothko, and it struck me that these
slabs on their ends were like drawings for a Rothko mural, and that
they may have been inspired, or influenced, by Rothko's suicide.
Certainly they carry the same kind of quiet impact of the Tate's Rothko
room, which at the moment is closed while the major Rothko retrospective
is being prepared.

My feeling of elegy continued and was
amplified in the next room, which contains 'Nini's Paintings', a
response to the death of his Roman dealer's wife. Their mood takes the
melancholy of the 'Treatise On The Veil' and transforms it to a sense of
frustrated rage, like someone scribbling lines that make no sense
because there is nothing useful to say. There is nothing minimalist or
repetetive about them, there are no sombre grays or blacks. The brush
strokes that were backgrounded in the Treatise, creating a deep
atmosphere, are now in the foreground, like chaos released.

If I
find those works a peak in Twombly's career, it's also evident that his
work progressed on both the intellectual and emotional levels, and his
white sculptures of found material seem almost like a relief. 'Two
Squares' recalls Joseph Albers, another leading light of Black Mountain,
and when the exhibition returns to painting, there is a greater
exuberance, a more daring sense of control. By now living on the
Tyrrhenian sea at Gaeta,his work begins to engage heavily with the sea,
both in 'Hero and Leandro' where the waves become ever-increasingly
harsh strokes of the paintbrush, and 'The Wilder Shores Of Love', whose
sea effects in gray Turner might even admire.

Although the nine
paintings of 'Untitled' were done for the Italian pavilion at the 1988
Biennale, and reflect 18th century Venice, they mark a progression from
light to dark, in which again I find echoes of the Treatise, almost an
allegory of life. Something that makes sense in light of the two
versions of 'The Four Seasons' which move from the energy of Spring to
the gathering darkness and pale light of Winter. Oddly, all the
reproductions at the Tate are of the later version (1993-95), but I
found the earlier one (1993) more powerful, particularly in the dying
bursts of yellow that drop through the blacks on one side of 'Inverno'
(Winter). (It's the later version of 'Inverno' which is pictured at the
header of this essay).

The exhibition's end, Bacchus (2005) with
its estatic vermillion ooze, came as a sort of winking coda to this,
confirmation that the viewer had completed the kind of emotional journey
those late paintings describe. It's a journey that reflects the
progress of Twombly's art; an art concerned with perception and
expression. Twombly's work, seen as a progression, takes on a modest,
intellectual sort of power, unmistakably a searching for the right way
to give emotional power to his apprehension of the world around him.
It's a brilliant show, from a painter who's now the last,and maybe just
being recognised as one of the greatest, of a crucial American
generation.

Footnote: A couple
of days after seeing this exhibition, I sat in as the analyst on Channel
Five's Major League Baseball show. I mention this because Cy Twombly's
father, also named Cy, was a pitcher in the major leagues, probably the
second-best ever named Cy. The best, Cy Young, lends his name to the
award for baseball's best pitcher. Baseball was surprisingly important
to the people at Black Mountain, see Fielding Dawson's writing,
particularly 'A Great Day For A Ballgame' (he also wrote 'An Emotional
Memoir Of Franz Kline'). The abstract expressionists were always trying
to prove they were red-blooded Americans, not longhaired eggheads or
effete artistes. Moving to Italy was certainly a way for Twombly to get
away from that need, perhaps from his own legacy. My own expat
experience has been the opposite, as I always keep getting drawn back to
sport as a profession, or part of it. As it is, moving from Cy Twombly
to Cy Young doesn't seem unusual, their coexistence doesn't strike me as
unnatural, though lots of people out there still think it should be!